


The Best Worst Night

by Ginia



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fluff, Gladio is a huge dork, Ignis is an opportunist, M/M, Regclar is savage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-06-01 00:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15131528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginia/pseuds/Ginia
Summary: Gladio is strong, courageous and bold, but some situations are so dire even the Shield needs rescuing. Will anyone answer his S.O.S?aka Gladio would rather face down a hoard of hell daemons than deal with the bullshit at a snooty Palace ball.





	The Best Worst Night

**Author's Note:**

> A goofy tumblr prompt I wrote and fluffed up a tad. Happy Canada Day, eh.

Gladio absolutely hates these fucking things.  
  
Oh sure, the food is good, if you can look past the foo-foo presentation and miniscule portions. The string quartet serenading the guests has talent, sprinkling the air with notes as light and merry as fairy dust. The wine flows freely from the finest vineyards and orchards of Tenebrae and Accordo. And as the heir and young lord of a noble house, he’s never scheduled for guard duty, guaranteed the evening off so that he can mingle and make nice with the other nobles and social climbers of Lucis.  
  
Lucky fucking him. He’d seriously rather work. Anything is better than this living nightmare. He has zero desire to dance or flirt with any of the guests.

Well, okay, that may not be entirely true. There may be a certain someone in attendance for whom he would trade his eye teeth in exchange for just one dance. A certain charming someone whose mere presence brightens the stuffy ballroom with his own reflected radiance.

But he wouldn’t want to dance with Gladio. Even if he weren’t busy working the room on behalf of the Crown, he’d never choose a bumbling oaf like Gladio.  He’d find someone closer to his intellectual and cultural equal.

Gladio sighs and drains his champagne flute, a bit of liquid courage to help him face the trials ahead and shake off his loneliness.

He stands in the middle of the palace’s ballroom like the eye of a storm—a very colourful, giggly storm that reeks of too much perfume. All around him, at least three deep, noble ladies and their daughters hover around him like vultures, their multi-coloured gowns rustling as they all jockey for position near him, like he’s just some prize for them to win.  
  
“It’s amazing, how you can fight with those big heavy swords,” a honeyed voice simpers. “I’d fall over if I tried to lift one, I’m sure of it!”  
  
“Oh my, will you ever stop growing?” A girl giggles from somewhere in the vicinity of his ribs, she’s so fucking short.  
  
“It’s because you’re an Amicitia. You have the finest genes, just like my niece here,” some old Countess says in a stage whisper “Good breeding always shows in the end, mark my words.”  
  
“It’s true,” a nasal voice drones on from somewhere to his left. “I’m not prejudiced of course, but common people just aren’t the same as people like _us_ . Take my daughter here for instance, you’ll never find a young woman so accomplished among the masses, or with such fine features. We must make her a smart match to avoid diminishing our line.” He can practically feel the noblewoman’s gaze drilling holes in him as she speaks.  
  
Gladio can feel his temper rising. He can feel a warm flush riding high in his cheeks and he hopes that those around him will blame it on the heavy suit he’s wearing with its oppressively tight collar and stiff layers. He hates these people. Hates the way they’d rather knock someone down and step all over them rather than extend a helping hand. He hates the entitlement of these people who’ve never done an honest day’s work but will berate the hardworking palace staff for the pettiest reasons.  

He doesn't want to join in on their elitist gossip and he sure as shit doesn't want any of them hanging all over him for a turn around the dance floor. But he knows that his father will flay him if he’s not at least polite. So he nods and makes non-committal sounds and refrains from telling the old harpies and their foul offspring to leave him alone.  
  
He casts his gaze through the crowd, grateful for the fact that he’s a good head taller than most of the attendees. He spies Noctis sitting on the dais next to His Majesty and his own father, heads inclined to one another, deep in conversation. Next he spots Nyx, who as expected is standing like a statue in the shadows of an archway, surveying the room with a bored expression. He’s on duty, so he’s no help there. Lucky bastard.  
  
After a few more moments of frantically scouring the room while mumbling the occasional “yeah” and “mmm” to the ladies fluttering around him he spies Ignis and desperate topaz locks beseechingly with amused peridot.

A perfectly manicured brow arches above sleek silver frames. Ignis’s lips twist into a mocking smile as he cants his head towards the refreshment table, telegraphing his intention of abandoning Gladio to the tender mercies of his admirers in favour of sampling the canapes.  
  
Gladio twists his features into a grimace and then does his best impression of Iris when she tries to make puppy eyes at him, his expression a silent plea to be rescued.  
  
Gladio doesn’t know how he does it. Ignis navigates these affairs with fluid ease, seamlessly weaving his way from one person to the next, leaving a trail of utterly charmed and impressed nobles in his wake, all of whom seem oblivious to the fact that Ignis is brushing them off, his gaze never leaving Gladio’s. When people try to stop him to strike up a conversation or—more likely ply him for gossip about the Prince–he manages to brush them off like flies threatening to spoil his picnic.  
  
Somehow the young Chamberlain-to-be manages to weave his way past the chattering and giggling ladies, silk skirts and robes fluttering out of his way.  
  
“Gladiolus,” Ignis murmurs, his accent lilting pleasantly to rise above the white noise of the crowd. “My apologies for taking you from such charming company, but might I beg a moment of your time regarding work?”  
  
All around them ladies whine at the prospect of losing their main source of entertainment, while simultaneously preening at being dubbed charming by Ignis.

“Duty calls, ladies. Excuse me.” He seizes Ignis’s arm in a bruising grip. “I’m sure this is very important if he’s taking me away from you all.”  
  
Out of the corner of his eye he sees the way Ignis’s lips twitch and his eyes glint with pure mischief behind his spectacles.  
  
“It is a rather urgent matter,” Ignis agrees. He folds at his slim waist in a gracious bow before he begins to skillfully weave his way through the crowd, a grateful Gladio trailing in his wake.  
  
They both school their features into serious masks, carefully avoiding each other’s gaze until they’re safely out of the ballroom, down the hall, and around the corner. The noise of the gala is only a faint whisper on the night air at this range and already the relative peace and quiet is enough to soothe Gladio’s frayed nerves.  
  
With a sigh Gladio lets his bulk sag against a nearby column, a hand going up to loosen the damned collar of his suit. “Thanks, Iggy. You’re my hero. Seriously, I think I owe you a life debt now. Or someone does, because i was that close to losing it. Ugh. Pretentious fuckin’ hags.”  
  
Ignis chuckles softly. “You’re welcome. My apologies for not rescuing you sooner. His Majesty and Lord Clarus had something of a bet going to see how long it would take you to tap out.”  
  
Gladio groans, amber eyes rolling dramatically. “For fuck’s sake. I’m glad my misery can be a source of so much amusement for my old man. I’m done. I’m packin’ my bags tonight and goin’ to live like a hermit in the woods. Alone. Forever.”  
  
Seafoam eyes twinkle merrily. “Aww. But then how will you find out who won the bet?”  
  
He thunks his head against the marble column a few times, as if he can beat the memory of this evening out of his brain. “They’re both jerks, I don’t care.”  
  
“Oh? Neither of them won,” Ignis is grinning, revealing a rare flash of perfectly straight white teeth.  
  
Gladio stops trying to give himself short-term memory loss long enough to quirk a brow at his friend and ask “Huh? Who won, then?”  
  
Patches of rosy colour blossom on Ignis’s sharp cheekbones as he softly murmurs “I did. Shall we take our leave and perhaps find some dinner? My treat. I’m about to come into a fair bit of gil.” A smile, small and hopeful, teases Ignis's full lips.  
  
That was the moment when the dreams and aspirations of countless eligible young ladies were dashed to pieces while all of Gladio’s came true.


End file.
